Monkeys Be Losin' They Minds

First it was monkeypox and now this.I noticed a news headline not long ago that read "Australian Zoo Evacuated After Orangutan Escape." The ape showed no aggression, but the newsworthy part of the story was the 27 year old primate breached an electric fence by using a branch to scale its' way to freedom and avoid being shocked. Coming so close on the heels of the recent, hideous chimp mauling in Los Angeles, I saw a pattern and decided to do some research so you wouldn't have to. What I found is jaw-droppingly shocking. We are in the midst of no less than a covert, global monkey jihad. Especially among so-called pets or otherwise kept monkeys. Consider this:

5/17/08, Los Angeles News"An orangutan named Bruno escaped from his enclosure at the Los Angeles Zoo and went on a 25-minute jaunt...Bruno got out through a hole in his wire mesh enclosure...Zoo officials were not sure whether Bruno made the hole..or if the wire broke some other way"
1/30/09,blog.nola.com"Using only a stretched green T-shirt and powerful upper body strength, a Sumatran orangutan named Berani escaped from his Audubon Zoo enclosure..Employing a level of cunning that could come from a prison movie, the primate stretched the shirt, scaled a 10 1/2-foot wall to the top of the moat, wrapped the shirt around the "hot" electrical wires surrounding the exhibit and swung out."
5/11/09 Monkeyday.com"An orangutan in Heidelberg Zoo has attracted attention after teaching himself to whistle. Now the 14-year-old ape has recorded his first CD. Entitled "Ich Bin Ujian," The CD single by Ujian will go on sale in June. The song, a jaunty pop-rock number with reggae elements, features Ujian's melodic whistling..and a chorus including the lines: 'I am Ujian the orangutan, I am so cool, man, I am a star.'"

Obviously, the captive orangutans are up to something. They escape their Escarpments with ease, causing chaos but never harming anyone, but just to brazenly show us they can do it at will. Some are learning skills involving the disarmament of locked gates and electric barriers, while others are learning to whistle "(Sittin' on)the Dock of the Bay," and releasing CD singles to distract us from what's really going down and have us believe that they are cool with our values. This orangutan song-and-dance is really a smokescreen to cover-up what is happening at the tip of the spear of the monkey revolt; the angry, malicious, and revengeful violence of the world's chimpanzees. In this battle against their human captors, they are the guerrilla warriors of the simian movement; "The Simianese Liberation Army."

The Kolkata zoo in India reported that a mother and her six-year-old daughter were injured by rocks thrown from Babu, a male chimpanzee, who became "furious and retaliated" when visitors threw pieces of bricks at him. Zoo officials confirmed that Babu escaped his enclosure last year by breaking the lock. The victims were treated in the hospital and released. More ominous were the plans of the chimp named Santino in Sweden's Furuvik Zoo, who was observed "chipping at concrete to create discs to throw at visitors. He even made weapons at night to throw...in the morning." Santino impressed Swedish scientists who believe "this is the first evidence of a non-human animal being capable of making plans for the future." Thousands of miles away in Thailand, the monkey murders have already begun. Nature and Conservation reported in March that Leilit Janchoon purchased a monkey for $180 dollars to climb trees and fetch coconuts, but when the exhausted beast tried to take a break, Janchoon beat the monkey until he returned to his task. The primate, named Brother Kwan, promptly re-climbed the tree and "hurled a coconut straight down on Janchoon's head, killing him instantly."

Most pet chimp stories end badly, including Elvis' monkey, "Scatter," who amused the boys for awhile before becoming too aggressive. People who can't find human contact and acquire a monkey instead, often treat chimps like children, until they discover their pets are feral beasts with great strength and not a lot of conscience. The latest gruesome mauling of a woman in Los Angeles by Travis the Chimp is an example. We discovered to our immense discomfort that Travis' female owner bathed and slept with the chimp. (Isn't that how AIDS got started?). But might she not have imagined that giving drugs to the animal could cause problems? Did she not think that the simian brain reacts differently to Xanax than humans and, just possibly, her pet may become confused? She may as well have given the monkey LSD and turned on a strobe light.

Travis' owner might have consulted with St. James and LaDonna Davis, who put their pet chimp, Moe, in a California primate sanctuary in 1999 after he bit off someone's finger. The couple went to visit Moe on his birthday in 2005, bringing a cake to celebrate the occasion, when two chimps in an adjoining cage went berserk, broke free and viciously attacked the Davis's. St. James took the full measure of the apes' fury, who bit off a foot, chewed off his nose, and ripped off his balls, while his pet Moe merely sat back and watched. Something sinister is going on around the ape grapevine, and it doesn't seem to be good, but there's a lesson in this for humans. Remember when our government invaded Iraq and disbanded the army, the police, and the Ba'ath party, in effect disenfranchising tens of thousands of Sunnis? The result was an unforeseen and bloody insurrection. The moral being; When you go to a primate party, you better bring enough cake for all the monkeys or they'll be having your testicles for canapes and your face for an entree.

The Thing That Wouldn't Leave

If Warner Brothers is ever interested in a remake of "The Man Who Came to Dinner," the Monty Wooley role of the irascible, housebound, curmudgeonly critic could be perfectly filled by Dick Cheney. His continuing media appearances have become an irritant like a rash that just won't heal. As badly as I'd like to forget these guys, the former Vice President, sometimes known by his regal name, "Richard the Chickenhearted," refuses to go away. Every day there's another Cheney sighting and another microphone to assist Dirty Dick in sewing his discord. And now that he's linked arms with Rush Limbaugh, his white noise concerning "enhanced interrogation techniques" will always have an outlet.

It has to be a tough gig defending torture under any circumstances, but Cheney tries to justify his special methods because, "They worked." So does armed robbery, but the criminals are usually brought to justice after they confess. Now, separate reports have surfaced saying the Office of the Vice President personally suggested "harsh techniques" to be used on certain captives in Iraq, and not because of some Keifer Sutherland, ticking dirty bomb fantasy. Col. Lawrence B. Wilkerson, Colin Powell's former chief of staff, recently wrote in the Washington Note that Cheney's suggested "enhanced" methods used in April of 2002, before the President's legal council had spoken on the matter, were entirely for the purpose of "discovering a smoking gun linking Iraq and Al Qaeda." Wilkerson continues to state that the reason the country has been free of a terrorist attack since 9/11, "is due almost entirely to the nation's having deployed over 200,000 troops in Iraq and Afghanistan," and not as the result of Cheney's interrogation methods. So why does Cheney continue to parrot that the country is more vulnerable under Obama's non-torturing directives?

There is certainly no downside to Cheney predicting another terrorist attack on American soil. Most Middle East analysts agree with him, so if or when an attack is attempted, Cheney can say "I told you so," and be seen as a visionary. If another sneak attack should never come, he can say that he erred on the side of national security. Either way, Cheney can't lose and he believes history will absolve him of his crimes in the name of "vigilance." Of course, if you go above or around the law and, say, attack a sovereign nation without provocation, then you're merely a "vigilante." The fog of talk-show war that Cheney is churning out is for one purpose only; if he can get everyone to focus on the use of harsh questioning of perceived terrorists in defense of the country, attention is diverted from the larger issue of the initial decision to invade Iraq and the consequent sales pitch that preceded the bombing of Baghdad. Interrogating bad guys is an argument that Cheney can win, but busting him for torture is like arresting a man for speeding when he's been caught in a stolen car. Sending the armed forces into combat under false pretences is the real crime. The torture of prisoners was used to justify it.

There's a fierce storm a'comin. It's going to be more furious than Katrina, worse than the Clinton impeachment, and uglier than Watergate. In fact, you'll have to go back to the Grant administration and the trials of Jefferson Davis and the hierarchy of the Confederacy to find a parallel. But it is as inevitable as justice itself and the people will demand it. We've always known there would be a reckoning someday for all the destruction and death resulting from this misbegotten war; a war spawned by a political philosophy encapsulated in the "Statement of Principles" of the Project For the New American Century. (Click on title). Among the signers of that document, three years before Bush was appointed president by the Supreme Court, were Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, Scooter Libby, and Dick Cheney. Their imperialist desires were pretty much spelled out in advance, and Cheney, by necessity, had to emerge from his undisclosed location to defend what has become the indefensible; starting a war. And to think that if Karl Rove had achieved his goal of a "permanent Republican majority," through voter fraud and gerrymandering, this gang would have gotten away clean. All this clamor over harsh interrogations being spewed by Dick Cheney is the sound of a drowning man who realizes he's going under, but is treading water just as fast as he can to delay the inevitable; sort of like someone being waterboarded.

The Nouvelle Neo-Cons

When I walked in on the evening news and heard them say that Specter had become a Democrat, I figured Phil Spector was looking for a pardon. But the prospect of Penn. Senator Arlen Specter voting with the Democrats is equally chilling. Arlen Specter was already a registered Democrat when he made his bones as Junior Council to the Warren Commission investigating the Kennedy assassination. His eternal contribution was the concoction of the "single bullet theory," which claimed that the same bullet passed through the throat of the president, then through the car seat and into Texas Governor John Connelly, through the Governor's body, striking his wrist, and ending up on the floor of the presidential limousine in near pristine condition. Specter sold his theory to the Warren Commission, but couldn't sell it to the American people, or even Governor Connelly for that matter; the point being that Arlen Spector has been shovelling the same shit for nearly fifty years. A Republican since 1965, Specter's defection deprives the GOP of their last moderate senator in the Northeast and the infamous inquisitor of Anita Hill. His multi-party reversals are like a man who undergoes a sex change, then returns to the doctor forty years later asking for his penis back.

To drive a weasel like Specter from their ranks, the Republican Party must be seriously off the rails. Last week, members of the conservative wing of the Republican National Committee drafted a resolution to officially change the way they refer to the opposing party. It states:

RESOLVED, that we the members of the Republican National Committee call on the Democratic Party to be truthful and honest with the American people by acknowledging that they have evolved from a party of tax and spend to a party of tax and nationalize and, therefore, should agree to rename themselves the Democrat Socialist Party.

This week, a new initiative called The National Council for a New America hit the road with such fresh faces as Mitt Romney and Jeb Bush holding town meetings to "re-brand" the Republican party. The architect of the Council is Virginia Congressman Eric Cantor, who has been called the GOP's "rising star" and undoubtedly has ambitions of his own. Cantor hopes that trotting out John McCain to talk about the future, or Rep. Michelle Bachman telling Chairman Michael Steele that, "You be the man," will energise the teaparty-goers and give a focus to their anger. But re-branding this Republican party is about as useful as changing the wrapping on a can of Spam.

I think we should no longer deny the dead elephant in the room, and that the real name change should be considered by the Republicans. GOP makes a nice acronym for "Greedy Old Pigs," but they all got washed out in the banking collapse and are now on the government teat, and not in a position to complain too loudly. All that's left of the old party are the religious conservatives, gun zealots, and Old Dixie: the remnants of Richard Nixon's "Southern Strategy." After Lyndon Johnson signed civil rights legislation in 1964, he said to an aide that the Democrats had probably lost the South for a generation, but not even LBJ would have thought a Southern governor would suggest secession. And all along, when I heard the term "neo-con," I thought they meant neo-conservatives. Now, I understand that the term actually means neo-Confederates: the party of states' rights, only with a few constitutional amendments prohibiting certain behaviors they deem offensive. So why not just re-name the Republican Party the "New Confederacy?" It sounds a little better than Strom Thurmond's Dixiecrats in 1948, or George Wallace's American Independent Party in 1968, but it appeals to the same group; the red-faced mob screaming about taxes when, most likely, they just got a refund.

The lack of historical reference is palpable among the current batch of Republican legislators. If they had any sense, they'd reverse course now, but because they don't, they are doomed to repeat the past. In this case, the example is the Democrats. At the Chicago convention of 1968, the Democrats tore themselves apart over the issues of war abroad and equality at home. Beaten and bloodied by the overeager Chicago police, the chaos in the streets shocked the nation and helped elect the law-and-order candidate, Nixon. Rather than lick their wounds and take a centrist approach, the party lurched to the left, into the doomed candidacy of George McGovern, and became known as the party of political correctness rather than the party of inclusion. Now that the roles are reversed and the Republicans have had their heads handed to them in the last two elections, they will instinctively follow their gun-toting, frustrated, base on a march to the far right, and into the arms of Governor Sarah Palin, or someone like her, who will lead them to crushing defeat.

The GOP has become the party of the angry Southern white man, led by talk radio into ugly sloganeering against the current government, without offering any solutions other than tax cuts and torture. The Boehner obstructionists need to either adjust or start learning the lyrics to James Taylor's "Steamroller Blues." Senators Arlen Specter and Al Franken will give the Democrats their filibuster-proof majority, and the Republicans, like the old Confederacy, become the defenders of yet another "Lost Cause." With no moderates remaining in the party, I only hope there is someone left who can discourage the Palin voters and the hysterical cultural crusaders from armed rebellion.

Tortured Logic

So the news is all atwitter over recently released memos that prove that the hierarchy of the Bush government sought out and approved methods of "enhanced interrogation techniques," particularly Cheney and Rumsfeld. Tell me something I don't already know. One witness after another has refuted the Rumsfeld "few bad apples" explanation for institutional torture in American run prisons. If Khalid Sheikh Mohammed was the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks, I personally don't care if they pull his teeth one by one, each representing 100 victims inside the World Trade Center, to get information or exact revenge for that matter. If he was responsible for the sneak attack on this nation, then he is an enemy combatant deserving of retribution. It's disturbing, however, to learn that the White House was inquiring about which "harsh techniques" they could legally use on prisoners three months before they had anyone to interrogate.

Focusing on the Bush government's sanctioning torture of detainees in the midst of this ghastly enterprise is like quibbling over the preferred thumbscrews used during the Spanish Inquisition. The My Lai Massacre occurred within the massive horror that was Vietnam. Violations of international law concerning treatment of prisoners happened in the greater atrocity that is the American invasion of Iraq. The continuing reports of prisoner abuse in Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib while under U.S. control are worthy of examination, but they are misdemeanors when compared to the Bush government's larger crime. They conspired at the highest levels to willfully and without provocation, invade and occupy a sovereign nation, cynically using the 9/11 attacks to mislead the American people and the Congress into believing we were living under an imminent threat of nuclear attack from Iraq. All they needed was a major Al Qaeda leader to confess a confederacy with Saddam Hussein, and that would seal the deal.

I'm no seer, but I saw through the obfuscation the day the entire Bush cabinet fanned out to the Sunday talk shows to warn of Saddam's "mushroom cloud." In a time of patriotic fervor, this previously unutterable phrase sounded like obvious bullshit to sell the public on a war that's execution had already been decided. Why else would they send Colin Powell in front of the United Nations to display pictures of "rolling biological weapons labs," and "aluminum tubes used in the manufacture of nuclear materials," when U.N. weapons inspectors were still on the ground? But, according to the Downing Street Memo, the timetable had already been set for March, 2003. White House chief of staff Andrew Card famously told The New York Times in 2002, "From a marketing point of view, you don't introduce new products in August." Even when Bush gave the Husseins 24 hours to get out of Dodge, the invasion was set. In the final hours when asylum was offered and accepted by Hussein, Bush blocked his exit. Cheney and Rumsfeld were going to exorcise the demon that had haunted them since the first Bush presidency ended; after a brilliantly executed war against Iraq, they had allowed Saddam to remain in power, and Poppy's critics called him a "wimp."

If the Justice Department wants to look at who approved waterboarding, have at it. After all, they finally got Al Capone for income tax evasion instead of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. But there are larger issues here. Taking a nation to war through lies and deception is a more serious infraction to me than smacking someone upside the head. Conducting a military exercise that kills over a half-million civilians and foments an insurgency that costs our soldiers 35,000 casualties is a higher crime than placing a dog collar on a detainee. The best estimate I've found of prisoners that have died in U.S. custody is 108, and that was four years ago. Of those, the Army admits that 34 are homicides. Our government's agents have done far worse than lock a man in a box with insects. We have tortured people to death, and it is documented. It's best that we, as a nation, address this egregious breach of civilized law ourselves, rather than have an international court parade the Bush lawyers who justified torture before the world. They were just the good Germans. The criminal conspiracy that took over the highest offices of government are the evildoers. I'm sure, however, that comfortable accommodations can be arranged for the Secret Service within Federal Prison grounds. Better locked-up in Leavenworth than renditioned to Romania.

Forget the Alamo

I enjoy telling my Texas friends that if it weren't for a few brave Tennesseans, they'd all be speaking Spanish. But to hear Governor Rick Perry talk these days, they'll have to choose a national language when Texas re-secedes from the Union. Then they can build an electric border fence as high as they want and reassign the beleaguered Border Patrol to hold the line against Oklahoma. But, according to the treaty admitting the Republic of Texas to the Union, they would be required to break up into five separate states, and then who would cheer for the Texas Rangers; either the ball team, or the lawmen? What manner of insane, combustive, prattle is this from an inane public servant who is a "Rebel Without a Clue?" It has reached a point where it may be necessary to require every seeker of public office to first take a remedial class in American history, just to keep them from self-humiliation.

"Texas is a unique place. When we joined the Union..(the treaty said), we would be able to leave if we chose to do that. We've got a great Union and there's no reason to dissolve it. But if Washington continues to thumb their nose at the American people, who knows what might come out of that?" Gov. Rick Perry

It's not that Texans alone continue to elect absolute dumbasses for Governor. After all, Tennessee elected the crook Ray Blanton, not to mention Rod Blagojevich in Illinois and Eliot Spitzer in New York; first-rate political jackalopes all. But not even Huey Long suggested that Louisiana should declare its' independence. Texas has also produced master politicians like Sam Rayburn, LBJ, Ann Richards, and the distinguished Congresswoman Barbara Jordan, who had the intellectual capacity to become the first woman, and black president. The good people of Texas have merely been duped like everyone else by the malignant political theories of Karl Rove. The Rove philosophy is not to be overly concerned with a political client's particular opinions on the issues as long as they meet three criteria; they must be pro-business, which also means anti-tax and anti-regulation; culturally conservative and demonstrably Christian; and have good hair.

This methodology emerged with Ronald Reagan, when the GOP found a man with one, great, "gut," principle, and the rugged, good looks that Americans like in their movie stars and father figures. When Bush the Elder, who fired Rove for dirty tricks, was presented with a choice of worthy candidates to nominate for his Vice President, he said, "I'll take the peachy blond who looks like Dennis the Menace." Molly Ivins has described Rove's first star-crossed meeting with Dubya when he was assigned to pick up the younger Bush at the D.C. train station. Rove was taken aback by the Texas Air National Guard flight jacket, the steely, blue eyes, and the cowboy hat on the man from Harvard Business and thought, "I can make him president." After Rove stacked the Texas statehouse and Supreme Court with his clients, and was about to do the same to the country, his hand-picked successor to Bush, Rick Perry, moved into the Governorship. Kay Bailey was a local TV anchorwoman with good hair before becoming a Rove client. In the upcoming gubernatorial election between Rick Perry and Kay Bailey Hutchison, how can Karl Rove lose? Rove's clients still occupy positions and seats in overwhelming numbers in every aspect of Texas government, including Senator John Cornyn III, who's hair is not as great as his right-wing politics.

Former and future Texas roach killer, Tom DeLay, came to Rick Perry's defense by saying, "This is a governor standing up for the sovereignty of his state," and claimed he was caught up in the tumultuous hysteria of San Antonio's recent "Tea Party." In a demonstration so incoherent that the GOP should stand for "Gut Obama's Policies," Perry was more likely attempting to appeal to the malcontents who, without proper stoking, might be inclined to vote for the slightly more moderate Hutchison. At least as a former Senator, Hutchison must know that seceding from the Union is unconstitutional. Perry probably knows as well, only he doesn't give a damn when it comes to fanatical, redneck populism. Either way, Texas' next governor will be a Rovian creation. So what if one seems like a rabid disciple of John C. Calhoun, and the other is like, well.. a TV anchorwoman? With an unprincipled State's Rights fanatic as governor, the criminal Dubya and Karen Hughes planning the Bush Policy Institute in Dallas, "The Hammer" DeLay plotting a comeback, and the Ron Paul Revolution, I say, "Let Texas Go." Fence it, put a moat around it, build a great wall; just stop sending Rove's politicians to Washington, and please grant passports to my cousins so they can visit me in free Tennessee.

Brand Loyalty Oaths

What ever happened to soap? I envision some genius in the marketing department at Proctor & Gamble saying, "You know, our soap smells far too pleasant and produces a rich lather. Let's change it to a slick bar with no discernible scent that leaves an oily residue that is hard to wash off, but also put specks of grit in it that are uncomfortable on the skin and tell the public that it's good for them." Before you know it, every bar in the soap aisle is either anti-bacterial, or Ivory, which brings back bad memories of childhood punishments for cursing. I gave my heart to Safeguard, and then they took it away from me. The whole concept of lather disappeared in order to sell you a new, gel "body wash" in a plastic, disposable container. Of course, that makes the puffy bath net on a rope a necessity and then you're into a whole new category of bathroom accessories. A similar thing happened with Vanilla Pepsi. I had finally found the proper mixture of cola, carbonation, and taste and was pledging my loyalty to Pepsi by listening to Michael Jackson records and watching old Joan Crawford movies, when they cut me off cold-turkey. I protested the bait-and-switch like a true Southerner and turned to Royal Crown Cola. It's hair tonic today and Bug Be Gone tomorrow. Packaged groceries are shrinking in size, trusted brands are disappearing from the shelves, and somehow the Watson's Girl just doesn't seem as sexy in her new incarnation as the Family Leisure Woman.

That's why, ever since the age of awareness, I have tried to be cautious of developing brand loyalties. But then I'm not like other people, if only for the fact that I put my pants on two legs at a time; always have. I sit at the edge of the bed, britches in hand, rock back and place both legs in at once, and spring to my feet fully trousered. I figure it saves me 15-20 seconds a day, which may not seem like much, but accumulated over many years it gives me an extra few hours at the end of my life to just mess around. That sort of thinking, plus a few college advertising classes, made me cognizant of tricks used by image peddlers who know that if they hook you young enough on their product, they've got you for life. Joe Camel was no accident. Neither were subliminal images contained within advertising, mostly in popular magazines. I saw devil heads painted into ice cubes in liquor ads without actually having to drink the stuff. I once considered advertising as a career for a minute until I realized I'd be lying for a living, and had I wanted to do that, I would have gone to law school. Over the years, I cast away the brand name products for common sense, but there was a time when brand preferences went a long way in determining social acceptance.

I wore a uniform back then, just like all my friends. But we weren't in a military academy or assigned a school uniform; just in Junior High, trying to be cool. We created a self-imposed, official, "cool" outfit and became slaves to fashion and the brand names. I wore Oxford cloth, Gant, button-down collared shirts in white, blue, yellow, or pink, H-I-S slacks in navy or khaki, Burlington Gold Cup socks, and Bass Weejuns. Upon enlightenment, I shed the uniform for simpler garb; the light blue workshirt, bell bottom jeans, and chukka boots. Then one day I looked around and realized that everyone was wearing exactly the same outfit and that I was back in uniform again. My clothing decisions these days are based more on comfort than style, but I have steadfastly refused to display a designer label on my ass or be anybody's walking billboard; Marvin Gaye and Barack Obama T-shirts excluded.

Back when American cars were the world's standard, they produced the fiercest brand loyalties. Beginning in 1934, my grandfather owned one long series of Buicks for his entire life. My first car was a Pontiac Tempest Le Mans ragtop and I loved it dearly. I had read in one of my big sister's "Teen" magazines that a gentleman should keep a scarf in the glove compartment so his female passengers wouldn't have to mess up their hair when the top was down. I had a variety of colors. After a few hundred trips back and forth from Knoxville, however, I began to notice something known within the industry as "planned obsolescence." Without constant maintenance, these cars weren't designed to last very long, and the ragtop wasn't so impressive at 85mph on the interstate. I would shove in an 8-Track of the Steve Miller Band and let him and Boz Scaggs battle the howling wind for noise dominance in the vehicle. Major mechanical problems began to develop in the car's third year, and that's only because it sat idle in my parents' driveway for nine months while I obeyed the UT rule forbidding freshmen from having cars on campus.

After an angst-ridden stretch in a doomed 1969 Mercury Cougar and a hippie pipe dream gone horribly wrong with a stripped-down, short-lived VW Minibus, I abandoned buying American cars completely for an alternating group of Hondas and Datsun/Nissans, the last of which I drove for ten years. I lease a car now, and I guess we show a little Honda favoritism since Melody drives the Accord and I drive the Metropolitan scooter. In the cola wars, I prefer to drink whatever is on sale that week. I am very fond of the Fender electric guitar, although I have owned others, but I have played the same cracked, hollow-body Gibson acoustic for 47 years. To power my home stereo, I still use the Marantz amplifier I bought for $75 from my former college roommate in 1972. That was a good deal, but the one I'm not so proud of was selling a 1962 Fender Stratocaster to Buddy Davis for $175. He was a good guitarist, I wasn't, and I thought he could make better use of it. That same guitar is worth over $12,000 today. Buddy ultimately sold it too, so there's someone out there with a prize. I only hope they know it.

As I have aged, my brand loyalties have dropped away one by one; Ultra-Brite toothpaste, Mennen Speed Stick, English Leather, any razor of any type, and since I've been married; Stouffer's Lean Cuisine and Sweet Sue Chicken and Dumplings. I have no favorite football team although I can't say the same for basketball, and I always root for the old hometown, as difficult as it sometimes gets. I seldom read fiction unless it is forced on me. I have owned both Apple and PC computers. Because I have 1000 songs at my fingertips at all times, I have no need for an iPod and I never listen to music through headphones or when I'm in public. I hate the cellphone and I refuse to text because that's essentially typing on the phone. I've entered the digital age, but saved my albums, and yes, I'll probably end up buying the newly mastered Beatles albums for the fifth separate time. All it takes to make me happy these days is a box of real Kleenex with Aloe and my remaining three undying brand loyalties which perfectly illustrate my priorities; Charmin Ultra, Jockey, and the Democratic Party.

All-American Murder

The "Hello-Kitty AK-47"

When Charles Whitman lugged a duffel bag full of high-powered rifles to the top of the clock tower at the University of Texas and began picking off unlucky bystanders, leaving 14 dead and 32 wounded, the country was brutally shocked and our collective psyche was forever scarred. There had been mass murders before, but nothing like this: a random spree killing of innocents. The killer never discriminated between young or old, man or woman, he just shot everything that moved. The year was 1966, and for years following the disaster, a macabre national obsession with the tragedy produced a best-selling, minute-by-minute novel and a made for TV movie, creating stars out of the Texas Rangers that finally took the sniper down. Everyone knew from the Kinky Friedman country song that Whitman had a brain tumor and was an Eagle Scout, but only insanity could explain his murderous rampage. I recall news footage of the day of horror being repeatedly broadcast with each gruesome detail examined. The name Charles Whitman entered the lexicon as the prototypical mass killer and an avalanche of psychobabble followed concerning how to identify and stop these potential time bombs in the future before they exploded. After 43 years of heated discussion, we are now experiencing a Charles Whitman-like massacre once a week. Rage and spree killings have become as American as Mom, apple pie, and methamphetamine.

Consider:

3/10/09; Sampson, Ala. "The worst rampage in Alabama history" began when a man described by friends as "a nice, quiet kid," armed himself with two military assault rifles, a handgun, and a shotgun, and began a multi-town slaughter that took 10 lives, including his parents and four relatives. When he opened fire on a True Value Hardware store, the owner said, "we realized what it was and grabbed our guns, but he was gone." A witness said he was wearing earplugs.

3/23/09; Oakland, Cal. A violent felon on parole used a handgun to murder two motorcycle policeman who had pulled him over for a traffic stop. When a SWAT team entered the apartment in which he was hiding, he killed two more before being shot himself.

3/29/09 Santa Clara, Ca. Six are killed and one injured in an upscale townhouse community by a man who shot his two children and three relatives with a .45 semi-automatic weapon, legally purchased two weeks previous.

3/30/09; Carthage, N.C. A nursing home is attacked by an armed man whose wife worked at the facility. An employee and 7 residents are killed and 4 wounded before the spree ends. A policeman is shot subduing the shooter. The victims' ages ranged from 78 to 98.

And that was only March. This month's tally so far:

4/3/09; Binghampton, N.Y. A man blocked a rear exit of the American Civic Association and killed 13 immigrants taking a citizenship test. Four are wounded. The center had tried to help the unemployed immigrant whose two handguns were properly purchased and registered. The killer boasted of his murders in a letter to the newspaper.

4/4/09; Pittsburgh, Pa. A gunman in body armor and "lying in wait" ambushes police responding to a domestic disturbance with an assault rifle and two guns, killing three.

Am I the only one seeing a pattern here? Yet it seems like the debate about restricting gun sales has already been settled. You rarely even hear it discussed anymore. It takes a high profile shooting or a massacre like Columbine to get our attention, and then the NRA moves in and showers money on the Congress, both Democrats and Republicans, and the problem quietly goes away until the next time. Is it a coincidence that after Bush the Merciless allowed the Clinton era ban on assault weapons to expire, the incidences of multiple victims murdered in a short period of time, from Virginia Tech to Northern Illinois University, began to spike? If someone who is mentally disturbed can act right for a couple of minutes, they can buy a gun in America. Or perhaps all these rampage killers went crazy after they purchased their weapons. It's also worth a reminder, before someone goes all racial about it, that with a few notable exceptions, serial and spree murder is almost entirely the province of angry white males. Yet the Obama administration has expressed no desire to bring up further restrictions on assault weapons, or the kind of "street-sweepers" that should only be in the possession of SWAT teams or the military.

The war news continues to report murders, kidnappings, and beheadings, and that's just in Mexico. Aside from Coke and Colonel Sanders, weapons are the US's most popular export, including assault weapons like the AK-47, which is the preferred weapon of Somali pirates, thug gangbangers, and Mexican drug lords as well. The AK-47, or Kalashnikov, was adopted by the Soviet Army after the Second World War for its killing effectiveness. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, it became accessible to American "collectors." Now, there are more than 70 million in production and they even make them right here in the U.S.A. Some have Chinese wood stocks, but that's globalization for you. Secretary of State Clinton was criticized for admitting that assault weapons enter Mexico from the United States. Where else would they come from? We want the drugs, and guns and drugs go together like peanut butter and jelly. The automatic weapon and the handgun have replaced the automobile as the iconic American image. Our auto industry is on life support but the domestic sale of weapons is soaring, partially because of right-wing media goons spreading a mantra that says, "Obama is coming for your guns."

America is armed like never before and a rash of paranoia is spreading through the populace, the television news spends 50% of their airtime reporting crime, and carry permits have exploded in number. In Memphis, men packing weapons at restaurants are killing over parking spots, and you can't tell me that if someone has a gun in his glove compartment and feels threatened in a road rage incident, his first instinct won't be to reach for the weapon. I still recall the woman who put her purse on the counter of a Baskin-Robbins store, discharging her pistol and killing a high school coach who was buying ice cream for his children. Now there is a measure to allow permit holders to carry a concealed weapon into a bar. Even in old Dodge City, they collected the guns at the saloon door. I understand anyone's desire and right to possess a handgun for protection or a rifle for hunting, but no one needs an infantry weapon to ensure their family's safety. I am not the first to point out that if cars must be registered and drivers licenced, certainly firearms deserve the same serious attention. What sort of hypocrisy allows a nation's weapons manufacturers to churn out guns like Dunkin' makes doughnuts, but the switchblade is illegal? Commerce will triumph, but recent history shows that desperate times produce desperate people. We don't need to resurrect the Tommy Gun to accommodate their twisted revenge fantasies.

Hello Liverpool!

I would never send out two posts in the same day were it not for the fantastic news I wish to share with my friends. I received a call early this morning, noon London time, from my man at Ace Records UK, Alec Palao, who was the producer of the CD: "Randy and the Radiants: Memphis Beat, The Sun Recordings 1964-1966." He had told me it might take a year or two before word of mouth spread about the disc, but a pirate radio station, broadcasting from a ship off the UK coast, began playing a song last month by Bob Simon called "Nobody Walks Out on Me," written in 1965, and it has become the most demanded and downloaded song in the English Midlands. It appears that after forty years, we may have a hit record on our hands. But here's the exciting part.

The surviving Radiants, plus Reni Simon, have been invited to participate in an event called the "Liverpool Renaissance" in the fall. Liverpool is completing a year as the official "Cultural Capital of Great Britain," and all the renovations have been turned into pedestrian malls, shops, and areas for concerts by the Mersey River. There is also a large entertainment district with a variety of nightclubs, but the buzz has been about a club called "Mania," with a limited partnership that includes Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney. The 1,200 seat club will feature music from the 1960s era performed by both vintage and contemporary groups. Somehow, Sir Paul heard Bob's song on the radio and called Ace Records to get the story, and he was fascinated that Sun Records and Sam Phillips ever recorded a "garage band." Because of his fondness for Sun, (he owns Bill Black's "doghouse" bass), the Radiants will perform at "Mania" during their opening week. Every celebrity from rock royalty to real royalty are rumored to be attending, but that's not all.

Sir Paul has become interested in the Radiants' history, especially that we persevered for thirty years, and believes that since Liverpool and Memphis are similar, the stories of the Beatles and the Radiants are likewise similar. So, Apple Corps. has decided, along with my friend Isaac Tigrett, to fund a project that will bring famed British artist and documentarian Alan Aldridge, editor of "The Beatles' Illustrated Lyrics," to Memphis over the summer to film black-and-white scenes at local 1960s hotspots like the former T. Walker Lewis YMCA, Clearpool, and the Mid-South Coliseum. The plan is for the yet untitled film to be debuted at "Mania" in September before the Radiants' performance. But, and this is important, here's where you come in.

Mr. Aldridge has asked for everyone that participated in the Sixties' scene to be part of a "Battle of the Bands" recreation at the former T. Walker Lewis YMCA, now the Ira Samelson Boy's Club, behind Treadwell High. He will intersperse scenes of young dancers with the actual people who were there at the time. The filming will be on a Sunday evening when the facility will be available and everyone who shows up will receive an "extra's fee." Those willing to share their memories of the time and be interviewed on camera will receive a standard actor's fee, plus a royalty if the film is picked up for distribution. They are particularly looking for stories concerning the wildness of the place to compare to the Cavern Club. After the interviews, the Radiants will play T. Walker Lewis one more time, and we're hoping to convince the original Flash and the Casuals to join us in the "battle." Of course, we're supposed to win.

I know you are as excited to take part in this unbelievable event as we are, and we all hope to have our own
"Magical Mystery Tour" right here in the River City. I understand a special guest or two might be coming from London, but that's all I'm saying. I can barely believe it myself, but I will notify everyone when the occasion draws near and we can all make plans to go to T. Walker Lewis again, but this time, no fighting or making-out in the parking lot. The film crew should be here in early June, after Memphis in May wraps up, which only seems just around the corner. We can already start counting the days. If the British arrive on June 7, then that's only...let's see what today is. Oh yeah, April Fool.

And Cal Taketh Away

photo: Commercial Appeal
Since my statcounter showed that my last post regarding basketball was the least read or commented upon in recent months, let's do another. I don't know whether to be sad or mad about this John Calipari situation, but here is a message I received on March 22nd from my cousin Bob who lives in Boston and, as a fan of Umass, has experienced this same drama before. I don't think he'll mind if I demonstrate his prescience.

Cousin Bob said...
Randy,
For years, I've been advocating a rule change that would really make the fouling team think twice. Award the shooting team two points if the first foul shot is made for any foul committed in the last minute.
I usually agree with everything you write, but I wouldn't pop the champagne corks yet if i were a Memphis fan. No doubt the bad taste that remains from Calipari taking UMass far but ultimately nowhere, then skipping to the NBA (and to the Nets at that - it would be like leaving Gonzaga for the Grizzlies), makes it hard for me and many others in New England to root for a Coach Cal team. Which does not mean that I'm picking UConn, which (as Dan Shaughnassy pointed out the other day) might as well be on Long Island as far as Bostonians are concerned. I'd like to see Pitt win, and as for Louisville, if you think Calipari left a bad taste...
Keep up the great work, a sentiment seconded by Denise./Bob

I don't begrudge Coach Cal accepting the premier head coaching job at the University of Kentucky, but does he have to wreck the Memphis program on the way out the door? My understanding is that U of Memphis backers were prepared to match whatever lucrative offer made by Kentucky. The big dog, FedEx Fred Smith his ownself, went to visit Cal's home to convince him to stay. So, most likely, money wasn't the motivator. At some point, however, it would seem a coach whose star has already risen would ask himself how many times can you start over and at what price? Everything Cal could want was here for him in Memphis; a new arena, new on-campus practice facilities, a devoted fan base, a rich recruiting environment, plus all the money he would ever need to commit the remainder of his career to the university, and have the building named after him when he retired. Is the fame or respect so insufficient here that you need your name to be whispered in the same sentence with Adolph Rupp or John Wooden? Without question, Cal turned the U of M into one of the nation's elite basketball programs, but that elitism just caught the last plane out.

The pain of losing so dramatically in the NCAA tourney was assuaged by Cal's statement that Memphis was where he wanted to be, and that next year's recruiting class was ranked among the best in the country. Now, Cal leaves with the staff, the recruits, and the reason for the remaining players to want to stay here. After Memphis dominated the C-USA Conference for years, sports radio announcer George Lapides says that instead of competing again for a national title, the Tigers will be fortunate to finish in the conference's second tier next season. Kentucky gets their man, but Memphis fans get to see a wrecking ball taken to their beloved program and the resulting rubble will take years to clean up. John Calipari has become the George W. Bush of basketball. There is no questioning Cal's civic contributions to our city, and I'm sure he'll continue to do the same in Lexington, but to discover he "chased" vacant coaching jobs at Pittsburgh and St. John's in recent years confirms that nagging doubt that while Cal was our Dixie Chicken, his heart was always in the northeast.

Thirty-five million for six years at UK is one sweet deal and it will make Cal the highest paid coach in college basketball history. But what price can you place on the loyalty of the Memphis fans who, in these difficult times, were willing to pay whatever the cost to convince him to stay? After nine seasons, Cal understood that one of the remaining joys in this "Town Without Pity" is University of Memphis basketball, and he was the parade's Grand Marshall. Where is his loyalty in return? While watching this year's tournament, I couldn't help but take note that the most successful coaches in college basketball; Gary Williams at Maryland; Mike Krzyzewski at Duke; Jim Calhoun at Connecticut; Jim Boeheim at Syracuse, are coaches that have devoted decades to their respective institutions. Recently retired coaches like John Thompson and Cal's arch-enemy John Cheney, became famous for taking relatively small schools' basketball programs from obscurity to prominence. When Cal came to Memphis, he promised a national championship. We nearly got there, but he didn't deliver, especially in the final seconds of last year's championship game. But then, he made the same promise to UMass before he split for a dismal tenure in the pros. Will Kentucky be his final stop, or does Cal secretly want to be Pat Reilly? Same hair-do.

I suppose Cal deserves thanks for the nine exciting seasons he was here. He hit the gold-mine with his connection to Laurinburg Prep, the basketball preparatory institute who's starting five all came to Memphis. Season ticket costs plus the extortion to the Athletic Department were jacked up and television was limited, but Cal could sure recruit. Thanks for one year of DaJuan Wagner, who's Dad you hired to assure his attendance, and is now out of basketball after a stint in Poland. Thanks for one year of Derrick Rose, two for Darius Washington, and now one-and-done for National Freshman of the Year, Tyreke Evans, who said, "If he (Calipari) leaves, then I'm not staying." And thanks for sneaking away from Galloway Drive under the cover of night without saying a word to the fans who supported you, while simultaneously deserting the team who played for you. When I received the above message from Cousin Bob in Boston nine days ago, I initially felt it was just sour grapes. Now my own grapes are making me feel a bit queasy.

I am sure that John Calipari can resuscitate the storied Kentucky basketball program, yet I'm still reminded of a former Memphis coach, Gene Bartow, who didn't find UCLA nearly as hospitable as Memphis, nor as patient, and ended his career in Birmingham. Calipari was already a legend in Memphis. Now, he risks his legacy to reach for, what? So once again, the U of Memphis must start from scratch. According to my pal Billy in Florida, the quickest way to return to national attention is to recruit Michelle Obama's brother, Craig Robinson, now the head coach at Oregon State. He didn't have much of a season last year, but at least we'd have one very high-profile fan. But what prominent coach would want to come here to the OK Corral and play in a mediocre conference with a decimated team anyway? The answer may lie right in our own backyard; tanned, rested, experienced and ready. It's time to forgive and forget. Re-hire Dana Kirk.

Basketball's Longest Minute

If I'm ever informed that I only have one minute to live, I'm heading straight for an NCAA basketball game. Not just because I'm a fan, but the final sixty seconds of a college game can seem like an eternity. Anyone who has ever waited for their team's game to be televised, while an already decided contest bogs down into a parade of free throws and time outs, knows the frustration of watching thirty seconds on a frozen scoreboard turn into ten minutes of futility. During a game's thirty-nine other minutes, the personal foul is considered an infraction, both for the individual player and the team. A foul is supposed to produce a penalty, yet in the final minute, a foul is encouraged and rewarded by stopping the action and giving the losing team the chance to steal a victory through, essentially, breaking the rules. It transforms a team game into an individual free throw shooting contest, and worst of all for television, it is intensely boring. It's time for a rule change.

A mild case in point was Saturday's Michigan-Oklahoma game. With 59.4 seconds to go and ten points down, Michigan called a time-out. That final minute took six minutes to complete and, guess what; after three more fouls and another time-out, Michigan lost by ten points. It was like watching water evaporate. Why should something considered a liability for the rest of a game become an asset in the final seconds? Other rule changes have only benefited the game. I can recall when the dunk was illegal, and any player the referee believed a little too aggressive around the rim could have his shot waved off. The slam dunk electrified the game when it was finally permitted, but the strategy changed from the jump shot, to throw the ball under to Shaq and let him break the backboard. To correct this, the three point shot was added to reward the long jumper and reclaim the game from the behemoths lurking beneath the basket. Now, the excitement of a timely three-pointer rivals the dunk.

The shot clock sped up the game and ended the strategy of stalling and sitting on a lead. No one knows the pain of holding season tickets for a team who's game plan is to hold the ball for extended periods of time and only shoot if it's a lay-up, like the fans of the Memphis Tigers during the mid-1960s. Moe Iba, who was hired as coach because he was the son of legendary coach Hank Iba, proved that none of his father's success wore off on him by routinely producing games with final scores like 27-24. In the process, he ruined the career of Memphis Prep star Mike Butler, who, with the proper coaching, might have looked something more akin to Pete Maravich. But the fans endured until Iba was finally shown the door and the shot-clock made certain that such an abomination would never happen again. The excitement returned with a team that wanted to win and not merely try not to lose, and the problem was fixed. Now, it's time to address the game's final flaw, the excruciating, final second foul-fest and crawl to the finish.

These last minute touch fouls that kill the action and make the game resemble the Bataan Death March should be called by the refs as what they are; intentional fouls. Just because a foul doesn't knock somebody down, it's still committed with the intent and purpose of stopping the action. Rather than put the fouled player at the free throw line for a one-and-one, change the rule to make every non-shooting or open court foul in the final minute to be an intentional foul, and give the offended team an automatic two free throws. Or better still, do what they do in soccer. When a foul occurs in the open field, the offense just throws the ball back in and play continues. If there's no reward for fouling, the action goes on and the losing team actually has to play defense and sink the three-point shot.

Anything would be better than the interminable wait for the final ticks to expire on a game who's outcome has already been determined. The better team should win, and no basketballer who plays his heart out for forty minutes should have a game rest on his free throw unless he was fouled in the act of shooting. Ever since he removed the bottoms of the peach baskets, I don't believe Dr. Naismith intended for his fast-paced game to be decided at the charity stripe. And, need I add, that if this rule change had been in place last season, my Memphis Tigers would be the defending national champions. We ended, however, as runner-up to Kansas after owning them for thirty-eight minutes, and then the fouls began. But did you see the way the Tigers shucked Maryland and ate all their oysters on Saturday? And we're a much better free throw shooting team than last year, so until enlightenment strikes the NCAA rules committee and they decide to give the long-suffering fans a break, Go Tigers Go! In the meantime, please make your foul shots.

The Terrorists Won

"Happy birthday Osama,
We hope it's a blast.
But cover your backside,
It might be your last."
RJH

Doggone it. I forgot yesterday was Osama bin Laden's birthday and now I'll have to send one of those belated American Greetings e-cards. I think the NSA still forwards his correspondence. Osama has disappeared like Howard Hughes, supposedly in the "Mad Max" region between Afghanistan and Pakistan. But they ought to check out the penthouse suites in the high rise hotels of Islamabad, just to see if anyone has tin-foiled the windows. Osama's probably up there, kicked back with his dialysis machine and a hookah, watching a Blue-ray of "Ice Station Zebra" on the 50" flat screen he just got for a steal at the Kandahar Circuit City. I think the cave search should be about over, now that bin Laden is the hero of the Muslim world and could be given shelter and protection just about anywhere. I noticed that no one has yet ventured a claim to the 100 million dollars that was offered by the Bush Regime, "Dead or Alive," for his capture. His devotees are busy celebrating the 57th birthday of a sick man who has been fighting in the mountains since the 80s. He's been the subject of a supposedly intense, worldwide manhunt, and has already lived fifteen years longer than Elvis.

Al Qaeda's stated objectives for their attacks on the U.S. were to draw the nation into their apocalyptic visions of worldwide Jihad, entrap the military in an extended guerrilla war on rugged terrain, and drain the nation's economy. I recall thinking at the time that if these lunatics believed knocking down the World Trade Center would alter our way of life, they had badly underestimated the United States. But bin Laden and his personal Karl Rove, Ayman al-Zawahiri, used the same playbook that worked with the Russians in the 80s. Back then, when the Afghan mountain resistance was known as the mujaheddin and were being armed and supplied by the Reagan government, we called them "Freedom Fighters." The bloody and costly ten year Soviet stalemate in Afghanistan did far more to bankrupt the Soviet Union than Ronald Reagan's' "Tear down this wall" speech. U.S. troops have now been in Afghanistan for eight years.

Look where George Bush's "International War on Terror," has brought us. The Iraq war and the resulting atrocities have been a breeding ground for terrorist recruits like a fetid swamp for mosquitoes; 17,000 more troops have been ordered to Afghanistan to attempt to return the situation to the status quo that existed several years ago; and the American economy, in the words of Warren Buffett, "has fallen off a cliff." Wall Street greed, the housing debacle, and Reagan/Bush economics certainly contributed to our financial collapse, but no U.S. president in history has ever tried to fight two wars, while simultaneously granting massive tax cuts and not requesting sacrifice from anyone but the military. Our financial institutions are in shambles, our armed forces are pushed beyond their capacity, the Taliban has returned along with the burka, and Pakistan has granted safe haven to "suiciders" and "evil-doers" in the Swat Valley, adjoining Afghanastan. One would have to surmise that in the past eight years, every one of Al Qaeda's objectives has been met. And bin Laden is still alive somewhere, with his pal Ayman, carving up a birthday cake in the shape of Pakistan like Hyman Roth in Cuba.

All this could never have been possible without the myopic George Bush and his militaristic neocons. In fact, if al Qaeda had hand-picked and trained their own accomplice, like a Manchurian Candidate, and placed him in the U.S. Presidency, they could not have found a more hapless and predictable foil than the crusader Bush and the other two stooges, Rummy and Cheney; Curly, Larry, and Moe, in that order. To paraphrase the old country song by Roy Clark, "Thank God and Greyhound They're Gone." There is still this thing called "accountability," however, and in the name of "keeping us safe," some evil deeds were committed in our Halliburton sponsored war with Iraq. Somebody's got some 'splainin to do and someone needs to inform all the Bush lackeys screaming "executive privilege," that the executive they speak of just left town.

In addition to the "Truth Commission" that Sen. Patrick Leahy has introduced to determine who did what in the phony, "mushroom cloud," Iraq War build-up advertising campaign, the United Nations has just begun an investigation into the Bush kidnapping and rendition policies, stating, "The change in administration will have no effect on our decisions." I know that Dubya wouldn't understand irony if it hit him in the presidential library, but who would have believed that Osama bin Laden would plot and execute an attack on this country that claimed 3000 lives, and eight years later, the wanted man is George Bush. In the world at large, Osama is a hero and Bush is a zero. The Leahy Commission and John Conyers' House Judiciary Committee are slowly chipping away at the Bush regime's wall of silence. It might be time for George to mosey on down to those imaginary 75,000 hectares that he denies buying in Paraguay, where they have no extradition agreements. It's beginning to appear that the Bushes should either go on the lam, enter Witness Protection, or flip on Cheney, or our 43rd President stands a good chance of going to jail. Happy birthday, Osama.

What, and Get Out Of Show Business?

Bob and Randy
East High School
Dec. 1960

I had always heard that musicians do well in a Depression because everyone wants to be entertained, but I never imagined I'd be testing out the theory. I thought if bad came to worse, I could always ramble from campfire to campfire, like Tom Joad, and maybe get a skillet of stew if my song was spirited. It's not like I haven't done it before. So, a couple of weeks ago, I stepped away from whining and opining to emerge from semi-retirement and return to my real job as a singer. The semi-retirement wasn't really my idea. I'm just at that awkward age where I'm too old to be musically relevant but not old enough to be rediscovered as a curio by a younger generation. Fortunately, our audience for this gig was there to celebrate an old friend's sixtieth birthday, so we were practically on the cutting edge.

I performed with my old partners, Bob and Reni Simon, with John Grosse on bass. Since tinnitus prevents me from playing in an electric band, we did a seated acoustic show that travelled farther down memory lane than anyone cared to admit. It had been a year since we played together, so a couple of rehearsals were necessary to get our harmonies right and because we refuse to go anywhere and suck. But our main repertoire was at our host's request. We sang songs by Mary Wells, Ruby and the Romantics, the Impressions, and the Four Tops. We played some Carl Perkins and Buddy Holly and a short set of early Beatles, plus my favorite Ray Charles impressions and Bob's note-perfect Isley Brothers' version of "Shout," complete with the Little Richard "Whoos," that had some of the less inhibited souls doing the Bulldog on the living room floor. We even sang a couple by the Tymes and the Fleetwoods; and no, kids, I'm not talking about Fleetwood Mac. I had a great time and no one had to take me to the hospital or give me oxygen. Before the gig, however, I was a mess.

Musicians have a saying, "The music is free. You pay us to set up and tear down all that damned equipment." Although we were well compensated and I'd had two run-throughs, the day of the gig I developed a severe case of shpilkes, and by the time I loaded my own car, I was already exhausted. I refused Melody's offer to call an ambulance and boldly drove through the rain to my afternoon, early set-up rendezvous with my bandmates which, unfortunately, was my idea. I'm a little older than the birthday boy, so I required a nap immediately after all the stuff had been plugged up. I awoke to the intestinal spasms of which I have previously spoken, caused by the criminal Bush, and for a moment, I thought I would have to call in my apologies. But I've never missed a gig. Never. Besides, the host was giving away Radiants CDs as party favors and I already had a gig shirt picked out. Once we started playing, though, I was fine, and the crowd's good spirits lifted me.

The guests came with the intention of having a good time and a main topic of conversation was that there is no place in Memphis to hear this kind of acoustic music anymore. There are still good clubs that cater to younger crowds, but when I went to the Hi-Tone to hear the Iguanas, the opening band roared like a jet and sent me hurtling from the room wiping the blood from my ears. I can dish it out, but I can't take it anymore. My friend Jay Sheffield has generously offered a tour of area Huey's, but I just no longer have the desire to be background noise for family supper. Bless him and good old Thomas Boggs for providing the venues, though. The last time the Simon-Haspel Trio played Huey's midtown, Thomas sat at the end of the bar staring at us intently while the customers were noisy and indifferent. I was certain he was thinking that our act was too tired for the room. When we took a break, Thomas approached and said, "If you ever want a drummer to play that song list with you, I'm your man." I really miss Thomas. Especially when we were reminiscing at the birthday party about our club-going years at Overton Square, when Thomas was often my boss.

On some brisk, March, Saturday night in 1975, six great bands would be playing on Madison Ave. alone. Beginning near McLean St., you could hear Jimmy Buffett, Taj Mahal, or one of the funniest bands I've ever seen, Darryl Rhodes and the HaHaVishnu Orchestra at the Ritz, a club born to fail, but beautifully furnished, both aesthetically and acoustically. Across the street, new bands played in the underground Procope Gardens while upstairs, Fantasia was Memphis' only club featuring live classical music. Perhaps Rick Christian and the White Boys with the late Mark Sallings on sax, or Joyce Cobb and Hot Fun would be playing at Trader Dick's while headliners like Billy Joel, Kansas, or Minnie Ripperton held forth at the lost and lamented Lafayette's Music Room. Across the street at Bombay Bicycle Club, the acoustic group St. Andrew's Fairway was thrilling an audience with harmonies, while, if you were lucky, you might hear a late set of Larry Raspberry and the Highsteppers at Godfather's. Walk the extra blocks down South Cooper to the High Cotton and maybe catch a night when Don Nix or John Mayall was hanging out. Those were wonderful times for live music, but I needed to remind my enthusiastic and nostalgic friends that our audiences from back then are usually in bed by 10:00 these days. And Tunica has laid such waste to the Memphis nightclub business, who would gamble on a music room in this economy?

Still, it would be great if Overton Square could recover like Beale Street, or maybe they don't want it to. Old folks still like music too, however, and most of them carry credit cards. Any potential investors for Randy's Acoustic Deli? Last week's gig was also a milestone of sorts, and I tell you because many of you have listened to us for a very long time and wouldn't otherwise know. Bob Simon and I started the Radiants in 1962 with Howard Calhoun and Mike Gardner, but it was already our third band. After the Silvertones and the Dynamics, with John McNulty on drums, we started the Casuals with David Friener and Gary Hofman in 1961. David Fleischman joined the band as a back-up singer, and became "Flash" when I was grounded for poor grades. But Bob and I started playing and singing together in 1959 and made our first appearance that same year at a summer camp. Now, I'm not fishing for attention or accolades, certainly not from any show-biz type organization, and wouldn't accept any if offered, but the first gig of this year marks fifty years that Bob Simon and I have been entertaining together, and without a single fistfight. Of course, it ain't over yet. I guess someone must have told us somewhere along the line to never give up. Questionable advice. It took me a week to recover. Next time, please let me know well in advance if you want to book us so I can start doing sit-ups.

Doctors Without (Ethical) Borders

"(Health Care) is a cost that now causes a bankruptcy in America every thirty seconds. By the end of the year, it could cause 1.5 million Americans to lose their homes...It is one of the major reasons why small businesses close their doors and corporations ship jobs overseas...Given these facts, we can no longer afford to put health care reform on hold. So let there be no doubt: (it) cannot wait, it must not wait, and it will not wait another year."
Barack Obama: Address to Joint Session of Congress 2/24/09

Considering that I have lived without health insurance for seventeen years, last week's check-up was pretty good. When I told the doctor that I was excited about the prospect of finally obtaining insurance, he replied that he hoped Obama "wouldn't make him into a federal employee." I would have argued with him, but he was examining my prostate at the time. The doctor knows better than to believe he is about to be drafted into some triage system for the wretched, but he defended his ground because he has been a part of the problem. And the problem has existed for thirty years. Doctors are sort of like truckers: once, a long time ago, they were courteous. Since I am now a "retail" patient, who's insurance cannot be exploited, I have received second-class treatment and taken my seat in the back of the medical bus. I have to enter a doctor's office, hat in hand, and ask for favors and discounts, and thus, have not received the same treatment as an insured patient. Melody urges me to go to the Church Health Center, but I feel I would be taking the place of someone who is truly destitute. I can afford insurance, but the HMOs have determined me "uninsurable." I can't buy it at any price.

Since all the current institutional and infrastructural decay can be traced back to the Reagan administration, that's when the crisis in health care began as well. The nation voted for "less government," and that's what we got. Reagan, the Great De-regulator, was saying it was "Morning in America," but that was mainly for opportunistic capitalists who could see their dreams of unfettered greed finally realized. So the big insurance companies, in collusion with the medical/hospital industry, and the American Medical Association, allowed the formation of the HMO and began herding all citizens into groups of managed care. That was the Conservatives' version of "socialized medicine." I recall having to join the National Council of Jewish Women to get a group rate, but the premiums grew so astronomically that the insurer finally thought better of paying the medical costs for a bunch of elderly, Jewish woman, and dropped the whole group.

Since then, I have been considered an "untouchable." Millions of people take anti-depressants and still obtain insurance. Because mine was initially prescribed by a psychiatrist, I have what is considered a "pre-existing mental condition," which disqualifies me from consideration by the beancounters who decide who's a bad risk for the insurance company. My internist told me to transfer all my records to him and he would prescribe the medication, allowing me the extreme Freudian pleasure of firing my psychiatrist. But when I again applied for coverage, the doctor sent in the same old records and I got the same old answer. So, I am one of those people who fear a catastrophic illness, only more financially than physically. It amazes me that those who can get health insurance are granted it through the workplace, or otherwise have to prove themselves healthy, while others who actually need medical attention are routinely denied. But as long as those papers kept shuffling between doctor's offices, insurance companies, and the government, it was a sweet deal for everyone but the patient. Doctors were so well compensated, they began to think more about Medicare payments and profits than patients. That's why, when you walk into a doctor's office, the first thing they examine is your wallet. And why is it that every time you're in the waiting room, a tight-dressed, spike-heeled, drug representative pulling perks on wheels gets ushered right in?

While the Medical/Pharmaceutical Complex was pulling in huge profits, they failed to re-invest any of it in the upkeep of hospitals. Once the avant-guarde of innovation, hospitals across the country lie in states of decay with antiquated equipment and intrusive devises that are monitored from an understaffed nurses' desk. How could hospitals become the last institutions to embrace new technologies? Confining the ill to be monitored may be a convenience for the doctor, but it has become the equivalent of checking into a seedy hotel for the patient. The last time a relative was at Baptist East, they charged extra for cable on that Motel 6 TV that's been mounted in the corner since 1972. The understaffing is another result of greed within the industry. I'm of an age to have observed several loved ones go through the hospital "system," and their halls are full of only bad memories for me. I only hope that if I'm incapacitated, rather than be hooked up to all that pre-historic shit and left to linger, that I be allowed to go home and die in my own bed. Of course, the technology exists where you could be monitored from home, but where's the profit in that?

I was delighted to hear President Obama announce that health care reform was among his priorities. The Conservatives can scream "socialized medicine" all they like, but that's exactly where we were going with health management organizations that had nothing to do with health, and everything to do with maximizing profits on the backs of the ill. The Right can't tolerate socialistic ideas because they believe they all lead right to Mussolini. But the Bush regime's hands-off, business first policy created no incentive for reform and so health care costs have exploded during the past eight years. Bush's statement that "Too many good docs are getting out of business...Too many OB/GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women across this country," wasn't out of concern for doctors or their patients, he was defending the insurance companies.

Now that we're all in a mid-sociological bungee jump, I wonder how that first big drop is treating everyone's stomach? I first developed stomach problems several years ago and when the doctor asked if I was experiencing any unusual stress, I told him, "I don't know Doc, but it didn't hurt during the Clinton administration." Since then, I've experienced enough invasive procedures to add a wing to his clinic, but they found nothing and since I had no insurance they wanted to spare me the expense of an Ultrasound. Ultimately, the Ultrasound I was forced to purchase turned up an ulcer so aggravated, it even surprised the doctor. It's been treated, but I've been left with a gastric condition that was further enflamed by the stress of no health insurance and no hope of getting it under the previous administration. I can't afford any more "oscopies," so I live with the condition. I have, however, named my pain. So until I am able, and hopefully soon, to obtain some health care coverage, when I am stricken with sudden gastric distress and have to excuse myself, I plan to say, "Pardon me. I have to go take a Bush."

You Talkin' To Me?

I wouldn't suppose anyone likes to be called a coward, even if you are one. Yet Attorney General Eric Holder said we were a "nation of cowards," when it comes to discussing matters of race. I understand Holder's purpose was to chastise and challenge people of all races about our national unwillingness to have a dialogue about what is really going on in our society, but only a month after we elected our first African-American president with an unprecedented outpouring of good will, and only two weeks since Holder was sworn in as our first black Attorney General, was "cowards" the wisest terminology to describe American society? Where I come from, those are fighting words. I recall another first, Andrew Young, who became Secretary to the United Nations under Jimmy Carter, and in debate with the British delegation said the English were intimately familiar with racism since "they pretty much invented it." What he said may have been factually correct, but his job description was supposedly to be a diplomat.

Perhaps I've lived in the South so long that I've developed a touch of redneck, but Holder's comments unexpectedly made my blood rise. It was akin to being a kid on the playground being pushed to the ground by the class bully. You can either sit there and put your cowardice on display, or charge the bully and try to inflict as much physical pain as possible while simultaneously praying that someone is there to break it up. There are, in fact, readers of this post that if you called "cowards" to their face, your next act would be gathering your teeth from the floor. I'm a pacifist who understands the intention, but Holder's unfortunate choice of words served to inflame many of the people who were already on his side and feeling uplifted over our historical national achievement. The really unfortunate part of this episode is that Holder is right about the need for racial dialogue, but his message was lost in the rancor of his clumsy and intentional provocation.

Holder succeeded in pretty much offending everyone, including, I imagine, President Obama. The President has so far been very careful to be non-confrontational and inclusive in his speeches, I wonder if Holder ran that little doozy past him first? In a joint appearance shortly after the inauguration, when Joe Biden joked about Chief Justice John "No Notes" Roberts mangling the Oath of Office, Barack grabbed his elbow and gave him a glance like a parent would a feckless child. I hardly believe the President would approve of his new Attorney General, in one of his first public speeches, making well-intentioned but ultimately divisive remarks. A racial discussion would be a good thing, but just right now, it's a few notches down in urgency than the economy, health care, and fending off an impending Depression. First, clean up the Justice Department, then we'll talk.

In fact, had Holder taken the long view, he might have seen what I have in recent years. I am among the remaining members of a generation who never sat in a classroom with a black student until I reached college. Attempting inter-racial friendships took some outreach and understanding on all parties, but I was never afraid to discuss race with anyone. Early on, I noticed a curious thing about both whites and blacks from a segregated society attempting to talk to one another for the first times. Whites would adapt some imagined hip-patois or jive lingo trying to relate to blacks, while blacks would become stricter and more pronounced in speech with white people than they were with each another. I managed to find a way to be constant in my behavior with everyone while resisting the temptation to perform multi-layered handshakes. An entire generation of people are still awkward around each other simply because of their forced separation in childhood. Such is not the case with young people like my step-son, Cameron, who know not the curse of segregation.

I marvelled at the seamlessness of his friendships with people of all races. Cameron didn't have "black" friends, or "Asian" friends, they were all just his friends. Holder's "nation of cowards" is of a certain generation, a remnant from the past when races were separated by law, along with the casualties of the "Reagan Revolution" who were either enriched or institutionally impoverished by "trickle-down" economics. Like 1968, we are a nation divided by young and old, rich and poor, black and white, Christians and everybody else. But the warriors of the Civil Rights movement, as well as their opponents, are rapidly aging now, soon to be replaced by this post-racial society we speak of, but have yet to experience in our time. Since Eric Holder was being blunt to make a point, let me be blunt as well. General Holder, before you come out swinging wildly and calling people of good will "cowards," you may wish to first display some personal courage yourself. The conflagration at Waco and the storm-trooper mission to retrieve Elian Gonzales are not sterling references on your resume. I already know you will be a wiser Attorney General than John Ashcroft or Alberto Gonzales by default, but maybe you should shut up until you have at least passed the Janet Reno threshold.

The Simmering Pot

Thank you, Michael Phelps, for pointing out the most glaring hypocrisy in American life that we have now lived with for over forty years; the foolish and childish demonization of marijuana, existing cheek by jowl with the romantic and seductive image of alcohol, created and sold to us since birth by the liquor industry. The Olympic star is 23 years old. Old enough to be responsible for his decisions. But the only misjudgement I see here, is that he trusted his rat bastard friends to not take cell phone pics of him, thus proving Cindy Lauper's warning, "Money Changes Everything." Sure, pot is still against the law, another sign of the failure of my generation, but suddenly Phelps' photo is all over the world, as if he were caught in a Chinese opium den, and he is being forced to grovel before the cameras to save his sponsorships. Kellogg has already announced they are dumping him. If I wasn't hooked on Raisin Bran, I'd consider boycotting the company.

And all this was simply over a photo. I thought it was only illegal to possess marijuana, but Phelps is being persecuted for a picture of him smoking sometime in the past. The reactionary governing body of some obtuse organization called U.S. Swimming has suspended Phelps for three months, cancelling several meet appearances and cutting off all financial support, "effective immediately." The board's statement could have come right out of 1968:

"This is not a situation where any anti-doping rule was violated, but we decided to send a strong message to Michael (Burt Bachrach take note) because he disappointed so many people, particularly the...kids who look up to him as a role model and a hero."

Spoken like a true member of the 50% of American society that still denies trying pot. Are those hard-won gold medals less worthy because of a bong hit? Fools! Your children already know more about it than you do. I understand that still developing brains have no business trying any mind-altering substance whatever. That's why we don't sell whiskey to children. But it's easier for your children to get pot than alcohol, especially with the profit motive and the outlaw mystique that comes along with the procurement and use of the illegal herb. And the smoking of anything is not healthy for the body, but a lung full of pot is far less harmful than a gut full of whiskey. Had Mr. Phelps been photographed at the same party with a large tumbler of scotch, no one would have raised an eyebrow, and that's just asinine.

Eric Schlosser has written the book, Reefer Madness: Sex, Drugs and Cheap Labor in the American Black Market, where marijuana is claimed to be the largest cash crop in the country. At the same time, Schlosser claimed in 2003, that "there are more people in prison today for violating marijuana laws than at any other time in American history." First outlawed by the states in the 30s to threaten illegal migrant workers not yet sufficiently exploited by their employers, with arrest as well, a government sponsored misinformation campaign of marijuana hysteria continued unabated until the Beatniks and Hippies exposed it as lies and propaganda. According to Schlosser, "The war on drugs launched by President Ronald Reagan in 1982 began largely as a campaign against marijuana, organized by conservative parents' groups." When Reagan secretly supplied the Contras in Nicaragua with weapons, we now know those supposedly empty CIA planes came back to this country filled with cocaine which, depending on who you ask, created the nationwide crack epidemic. Yet, the know-less-than-nothing Reagan began his War on Drugs on a weed that grows wild in almost every continent. He may as well have declared war on Kudzu.

The cultivation of marijuana is now an American industry. In the mid-60s, they once estimated that three million people had smoked marijuana, now it is estimated that three million people grow it. Entire counties in Northern California have been given over to pot farming and the legalization of medical marijuana has not just brought relief to sufferers of a variety of maladies, from Glaucoma to symptoms of AIDS, it has made pot as easy to obtain as a pizza. Still, the federal laws clash with the state laws and the DEA goes in periodically like the bull in the china shop to bust everything up on principle. And marijuana laws in other states, particularly in the South, are as draconian as ever, despite the ever-rising number of pot-related arrests. With the out-of-proportion public flogging of Michael Phelps, perhaps the indignation will be sufficient enough for the public to be amenable to the reform of marijuana laws. Ohio State University scientists have recently shown marijuana has the capacity to reduce memory impairment in the aging brain and those few who still claim that pot is a "gateway" to more dangerous substances have yet to discover that the gateway leads to a bag of Fritos and a Snickers Bar. Wouldn't it be something if there were a movement underway to re-educate the public, decriminalize, regulate, and tax marijuana? Well, there is.

Reps. Barney Frank and Ron Paul have introduced bi-partisan bills: H.R.5842, which allows the states to decide to decriminalize or allow medical marijuana without interference from Federal authority, and H.R.5843, officially called "The Act to Reform Federal Penalties for the Personal Use of Marijuana by Responsible Adults." The intrepid people from NORML helped to write the bill, which would end the criminal prosecution of Americans in possession of 100 grams, or nearly four ounces, which would be considered as personal use. Presently, the government classifies pot as a Schedule 1 controlled substance, just like heroin and PCP. The Marijuana Policy Project states marijuana arrests "outnumber arrests for all violent crimes combined," yet I never knew anyone who ever held up a liquor store because he was out of pot. Barney Frank said, "The vast amount of human activity should be none of the government's business." The Congressman added, "I don't think it is the government's business to tell you how to spend your leisure time." With all the problems on the new President's shoulders, it would seem that an innocuous weed would be a low priority. But if President Obama is looking for new and profitable businesses, he need look no farther than California, where an already burgeoning marijuana trade, if properly regulated, just might take a huge bite out of the national debt. This is one project that is literally "shovel ready."

Cyber Self-Gratification

Everybody does it, they just don't talk about it. It's a natural occurrence that is done almost exclusively alone, but it's a dirty little secret people like to keep to themselves. Even those who claim no curiosity know in their quiet moments that the urge is there, and sooner or later, they succumb. People wait until their privacy is assured and they won't be interrupted, then they surrender to their yearnings and do it. They Google themselves.

I'm guilty, too. But ever since I began posting online, and The Memphis Flyer has been printing my articles in their weekly paper, I've gotten all Googled up and, like B.B. says, "The Thrill is Gone," or perhaps, just de-glossed. But the first time I Googled myself, my throat constricted and my face froze. After I had typed in my name and pressed "enter," the first headline that came up said "Dead in Memphis 6-19-70." For a moment, I thought I was living in an alternate universe until I read the article. It was from a 1995 Flyer story about The Grateful Dead coming to Memphis, and the reporter contacted me about attending a Dead concert in the Mid-South Coliseum in 1970, where they bombed. At this Vietnam era show, it looked like every sailor in Millington had come to see the Grateful Dead, and they all just sat there. I and several other hippies hung around afterward to offer our condolences to the band and apologise that our city wasn't more receptive. Phil Lesh told me that "Memphis is the most soul-less city we've ever played." Ah, the good old days.

After I had realized that it wasn't actually me who was dead, there were several other "hits" referencing my 1960s garage rock band with links and listings about Sun Records. I discovered that our 1965 Sun single was selling online for $65.00, which indirectly led to a full compilation by Ace Records. I was also amazed to learn from Google that I was a member of the Jackson, Tennessee based Rockabilly Hall of Fame. I suppose admittance is granted to anyone who ever released a record on the Sun label which, after the "Million Dollar Quartet," includes a long list of my fellow unknowns. Although the Radiants came along ten years after Rockabilly, a term that Sam Phillips hated, I was honored by the association. If they're still in the planning stages for our induction ceremony, however, they'd better hurry. Nobody's getting any younger.

My last name is uncommon, but Google introduced me to a slew of prospective relatives, from jocks to doctors, and even actors that play doctors. It turns out there are Haspels all over the place. I know for certain that some are unknown cousins, because someone has to be making those seersucker suits. I wonder if when they Google themselves, they wonder who in the hell I am. Seeing all that potential kin is interesting, but not enough for me to actually try and contact anyone. In this climate, they'd probably just hit me up for money and who needs that aggravation? I have other cousins who I actually like. Why ask for trouble?

It was likewise frightening the first time I typed in my name and clicked on Google "images." I expected to see an aging guy with a disheveled white beard, like my driver's license photo, but the first picture that came up was Osama bin Laden. Now my paranoia was confirmed. I had been scooped up in the Bush administration's dragnet and the NSA was monitoring my computer activity. I had used too many of the Echelon project "code words," and now they were lumping me in with Al Qaeda. I was hesitant to even click on the picture, thinking that a giant eye would appear on the screen and order me to the courthouse to receive my bar-code, but it turned out to be just a picture from the Flyer from an issue in which I had an article.

I enjoyed the Google re-affirming my identity for a time. Having online references about yourself is a little like a droplet of immortality, at least until the next technology comes along. But things have changed and Google is not as kind to me as it once was. It seems writing for The Flyer is a mixed blessing. I enjoy having my thoughts and opinions considered by a wider audience and the Flyer pays me for my work, but it also brought me out of my tiny, blog bubble and greater access has invited more criticism. As a songwriter in Nashville, I used to eat criticism on my cereal for breakfast and developed a weatherproofed, leathery hide. I've been disappointed more times than a Manson woman at a parole hearing, but when the criticism is printed, that goes up on the Google as well. Now, just after a music site that says my singing voice is interesting, there's a reader's comment that says I'm also ignorant. After such a blissful spell of happy Google searching, I have lost control over my cyber identity, and with each published article, the number of people who consider me an idiot has grown in tandem.

So, I had to give up Googling myself. It felt good for a while but I needed to stop. I was beginning to go blind and hair was growing on my keyboard. Every now and then I'll check to make sure I still exist, but my self-Googling verve has diminished with time. At first, it was a gentle ego massage to see my name on the World Wide Web, but it's not as thrilling when your name is followed by the word "fool." Googling is such a tough habit to break, it should have it's own 12 step program. "My name is Randy and I'm a Self-Googler." Although I haven't given it up completely, I'll stop cold turkey before I let that damn Google start talking back to me and calling me names. If I allowed that, it would then cease to be self-gratification and something more akin to masturbating with steel wool. It just feels so good when you stop.